A Series of Unfortunate Events
by lavenderbreeze30
Summary: BEING DELETED THIS WEEK. Finding herself in a therapeutic camp in the middle of the Saharan nowhere for some forced sisterly bonding time, a city painter can only do her best to survive. But when she realizes that she's being held hostage in a plan to manipulate her mother, will she be able to escape with her life? Bane/OC.


**Disclaimer: All recognizable DC characters are not mine.**

* * *

Daggett was getting paranoid.

He'd called Bane in almost every day, providing him with dozens of names that he was convinced posed a threat to him and his plan to absorb Wayne Enterprises. He demanded that each person be researched and that a report, complete with photos, be provided for him within the week.

Bane had half a mind to simply kill the stupid man for his insolence but that would throw Talia's plan right back to the drawing board. They didn't have the time to accommodate such delays, so Bane humoured him, giving him the illusion of power.

Today, Bane brought in yet another stack of manila folders full of proof that the people Daggett was so afraid of were irrelevant. Daggett was a fool to think that Bane would allow any potential interference survive this long.

"Bane, you're here. Good. Stryver get the projector." John Daggett rose from his desk upon seeing his newly arrived guest. He never failed to be disturbed by how huge Bane was. But the businessman was reassured that he had the mercenary on a short leash. No man could ignore the amount of money he had invested in him.

Bane placed the manila folders on the table he knew Daggett would sit at and produced a USB key from his pocket.

Stryver appeared a minute later, shutting off the lights as he entered the room. He wheeled in a trolley with a projector hooked up to a laptop. Daggett took his usual place on one of the smooth leather couches and grabbed the slender remote that sat nearby. When he pressed a button, the curtains closed with a soft mechanical whirring, and with the press of another button a white screen slid from the ceiling.

Taking the USB from Bane, Stryver plugged it into the laptop. There were fourteen PowerPoint files on it, each labelled with a name.

Bane remained standing while Stryver turned on the projector and began the long process of viewing each and every file, as well as its accompanying manila folder, until John Daggett was satisfied.

The first few names on the list were Wayne Enterprises board members. They were flipped through quite quickly since they didn't hold enough power or favour to take over the company.

Next, there were several ex-mistresses of Daggett's, who he wanted watched in case one of them had a kid and tried to claim child support. They were all blonde, unnaturally busty, and twenty something. After being dumped by their rich, and considerably older, lover they worked as waitresses and strippers, right back where Daggett had found them in the first place. He seemed to relish the knowledge that they hadn't gained anything permanent from the brief affairs.

The last was a French woman named Amelie Bellanger, and her three daughters, Shirley, Priscilla and Monique, each with their own file. Mrs. Bellanger, who was once a widow and five times a divorcée, owned the company that supplied Daggett industries with cement for his trucks to deliver around the city.

Her eldest daughter Shirley had married two years ago, uniting Bellanger Inc. with a company that also ran cement trucks around the city.

Daggett wasn't happy that his main supplier was supporting his competition. He could find another supplier but it would cost him time and money he didn't want to waste, so instead he watched and waited, ready to jump ship at the slightest inclination.

The three daughters were not a threat either.

The eldest, Shirley, seemed to be the shining example of corporate American women, following in her mother's footsteps in becoming established in the business world through her husband. She had two kids, twins, but didn't fail to throw several dinner parties a month despite the fact that her precious offspring were less than a year old.

The middle daughter, Priscilla, drank and partied her mother's money away, landing herself on the cover of a trashy magazine almost as frequently as her older sister threw a party.

Monique, the youngest, had given Bane the most trouble. He had had to resort to ordering Barsad to research her. But even his second in command had found only the basics.

She attended Gotham High School, graduated, and went to France for University, supposedly reconnecting with her mother's roots. She studied sciences of some sort – Barsad couldn't find which sciences – before taking off and travelling the world at a neck breaking pace. Barsad couldn't even find all the places she had visited, but during her two year absence she had been to more than twenty countries. She was in Gotham for the moment, for how long no one knew, but she had a number of gallery openings scheduled for the next three weeks. Where and when she had started painting or had attained her fame was also a mystery. All Bane knew was that the tickets to the viewings had been given only to the most elite Gothamites and the rest had been sold within hours. They found nothing on her personal life, not even if she was currently in a relationship or not. Bane found that a little irksome.

Daggett let out a low whistle at the picture of her that started her PowerPoint.

In it she was looking into the camera, smiling softly. It was taken less than a year ago at a marathon she had run in England. Her auburn hair, pulled back into ponytail, framed a lightly freckled face. Thick lashes framed hazel eyes, and a Cupid's bow mouth rested beneath an aristocratic nose. Her visage was only marred by a small, vaguely L-shaped scar in the space between her perfectly shaped eyebrows.

The next slide was her basic information.

Twenty-three years old, never married, no children. Daggett grinned lecherously and told Stryver to return to the previous slide.

"Blondes are my favourite, but I sure wouldn't mind trying this one on for size," he said, smirking. Dutifully, Stryver chuckled.

Had he been anyone else, Bane would've rolled his eyes at Daggett's vulgarity and solid belief that he was irresistible. But he wasn't just anyone so he remained impassive, waiting patiently for this to be over.

With a final look at the picture, Daggett got up from the couch and picked up his remote again.

"Keep tabs on this one," he instructed Bane. "I like her."

* * *

Barbie's evil twin was going to be the death of her, Monique just knew it.

"OMG, you gotta kick higher, Monnie, babe," the blonde squeaked. She kicked up her own leg vigourously, making her breasts almost pop out of her skimpy top.

Monique added attending this damnable jazzercise class to her list of bad life decisions. But it was a necessary evil forced upon her by Shirley, who was still losing baby weight and demanded the moral support.

The instructor, who had earned her nickname by being bleach blonde and having so much silicone pumped into her that she was any plastic surgeon's wet dream, really did look like a trashy Barbie and carried the stripper-esque name of Candy. Amy couldn't have imagined a more despicable person.

Not only had she given her that terrible nickname – Monnie? Really? – but she also insisted on screeching in her ear in a voice that could've communicated with dolphins.

Shirley and Monique took immense pleasure in bitching about her after class when they shared their customary smoothie.

Forcing a smile onto her face, Monique did her best to appease the monstrosity of a woman glaring at her from beneath dense, fake eyelashes.

Her sister grinned evilly, enjoying her suffering. Apparently satisfied, Evil Barbie sauntered off to the front of the room and called for everyone to start from the top.

Monique enjoyed the actual exercise as she had always loved dancing, and went through the steps gracefully, kicking and swinging her arms with practiced ease. Her sister, on the other hand, was red in the face and panting. It was Monique's turn to smile sadistically.

At seven, class was dismissed and everyone proceeded to the changing rooms. After taking a quick shower, Monique changed back into her regular clothes of jean shorts and a bandeau under a gauzy, black button-up.

Pulling white keds onto her feet, the red head sat down on a bench waiting for her sister to finish dolling up. Shirley didn't go anywhere without looking like she had just stepped out of a magazine. With luscious waves of golden hair and a naturally voluptuous figure, she was the kind of woman that made men do a double take.

Monique was astounded by her sister's commitment to cosmetics and designer labels. Just thinking about all the work Shirley put into her appearance on a daily basis made her exhausted.

"You should wear brighter lipsticks," Shirley told her as she applied a finishing coat of mascara. "You have mom's lips. Don't let them go to waste." She shook a finger at Monique teasingly before packing up her beauty tools and zipping her bag.

The younger sister rolled her eyes but couldn't supress a smile.

Outside, it was late August, the air damp and hot. Monique treasured the feel of a slight breeze on the bare skin of her legs.

The smoothie place that they were going to was only two blocks down, and offered every flavour of cold fruitiness imaginable. They chatted idly about this and that, pausing at the occasional store front to admire a pretty dress.

Monique enjoyed pretty clothes as much as Shirley, but probably with less intensity. For Shirley, shopping was a sport and a competition, the victor getting her perfectly manicured hands on limited edition Jimmy Choos or a brand new leather handbag.

Even now that she was a mother, Shirley was relentless in looking good. Sometimes Monique was disappointed in her sister for being so vain, but she kept quiet, not wanting to sever her bond with this sister too.

At their destination they bought their drinks and continued down the street on their way to their respective homes. For Shirley that meant a luxurious penthouse in the center of downtown Gotham, complete with a doorman and valet parking. Monique's residence was a lot more humble, a dull brownstone on the outskirts of the city. She loved it though. With two stories and a spacious basement, it was plenty of room for her.

Since they had walked leisurely, it was nine and already dark when they reached the intersection where they went their separate ways. Hugging her sister and promising to call, Monique pulled out her iPod and stuck in her headphones.

The street she walked on was lined with little hipster coffee shops and boutiques. They were all closed for the night, and the street was empty.

Turning her attention to changing the song she was listening to, Monique failed to notice the shady figure blending with the shadows as it followed her. Suddenly the figure bolted towards her and shoved her to the ground.

Monique let out a shriek as her iPod went flying and she landed hard on her bottom. Her attacker stood over her.

"Give me all your money and valuables, _now, _and don't you dare scream bitch_._" His voice was gravelly and as he stepped closer she saw that his face was heavily covered with acne scars. He had the crazed look in his eyes of a drug addict that had gone too long without a fix. The switchblade that he pointed at her shook.

He was definitely irrational and Monique's heart gave a stutter. There was no one around to hear her scream, even if she _did _dare.

Thinking quickly, she realized that her bag had twisted behind her, hidden from the man's sight by her body. Carefully she reached back and slid her hand into the opening at the top. Her other hand pulled the miraculously intact headphones out of her ears and lifted the iPod toward him in offering.

As soon as he went to reach for it, Monique whipped around the hand that had been digging in her bag and got him right in the eyes with pepper spray. The man roared in pain grabbing his face and stumbled back.

Jumping to her feet, Monique grabbed her bag and sprinted away. The pepper spray wouldn't last for long and she didn't want to try outrunning him, fearing that she'd lead him to her home instead.

Ducking into an alleyway, she pulled out her phone. She almost cried when she realized that the battery was dead. Of course the stupid thing would give out in a time like this.

Realizing that she had no choice but to hide and wait it out, Monique backed up looking for something big enough to conceal her.

In the dark she almost missed the open man hole. Thankfully she stopped right before she stepped into the gaping abyss.

The rest of the alley was strangely empty, not even a box lying around. Already she could hear the distant, running footsteps of her attacker. Realizing that she didn't have time to look for a better hiding place, Monique shuddered.

Swallowing down her fear of rats and cramped spaces, she pulled her bag onto her shoulder and felt for the ladder leading down with her foot. Once she was fully inside the sewer, she dragged the man hole cover that lay nearby over her head, the adrenaline coursing through her system making her stronger. Only a small space remained. She didn't think she could remove the heavy thing if it fell into place completely. Holding her breath, she waited.

Inattentive as ever, she hadn't noticed the two men standing below her in the sewer. They both watched her with curiosity, the bearded one holding his gun at the ready, waiting for his masked leader's signal.

Bane smiled under his mask. The mystery Bellanger girl had run right into his lair.

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**Author's Note: **Weeee another story! My second attempt at a Bane/OC. Love it? Hate it? Please tell me in the reviews!


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